


The Aisles Are Forever

by glovered



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bookshop fic, Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-05
Updated: 2011-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:16:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glovered/pseuds/glovered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean own a book shop, Cas is a single parent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Aisles Are Forever

"Do you carry Faulkner?"

Dean looked up from his crossword. "I don't know, man. Try the dead white guy section. I'm busy here."

This earned him a frown, like he'd said something offensive.

"Look," Dean said. "I don't put these dudes into categories, they categorized themselves. I just run this place."

Sam's voice came calmly from behind some shelves. "I can help you, sir."

Dean raised an eyebrow at the man and watched him walk away. Jesus, people these days. He finished his egg salad sandwich, wiping mayo from his mouth with the back of his hand and then leaning against the counter. He listened to Sam's voice floating through the quiet bookstore.

The man left with a five-volume set.

"Have a good day," Sam said as the door jingled and then slammed shut. He turned. "Do you really have to treat the customers like they're stupid?"

"What? He's probably never read Faulkner in his life."

"That's why he's buying them, Dean. To read them. Just because your personal repertoire fits narrowly in the sci-fi, fantasy—"

They both knew that wasn't true, but Dean never backed down from an argument. "Hey, I read those books about us. That falls under biography for sure, and yeah religious texts. Carver Edlund has this unique, lyrical style that rips as well as moves you—"

"Really? I'd shelf them under erotica—" said Sam.

And so the day went.

  
+

  
They closed up shop at seven, after the last lingering customers had gone. Sam counted money at the till and Dean shelved the last of the biographies that had been delivered that afternoon.

"Saturday night, Sammy," he called over his shoulder. He ran his finger along the spines and then pushed two books in at the correct place. "Time to hit the bars. How do you feel about the Yellowtail?"

"You gonna start singing karaoke again? Charm random girls to come up on stage with you? Because if so, I think I'll pass." There was a pause. "Unless, of course, you fail miserably, like last time. You're kind of cute and dejected when you get shot down."

"I will if you promise to still respect me in the morning."

Dean went to pull the blinds around the store, covering the scrawl on the window that read Smith & Wesson's Books and Periodicals. They'd bought the place off some elderly professor-type who had wanted to retire but had no proteges, and it was nothing short of the perfect hiding place. Plus, it had atmosphere. The shelves of the store were old, dark wood, and the floor was fucked up in places, but it was a nice, rough pine so the whole place smelled like a cabin in the woods and vanilla with used books.

Dean took a canister of clear finish into which they'd mixed a pound of salt, and crouched to touch up some of the lines they'd laid down with a paint brush. He smoothed streaks of salt down the windowsills and along the threshold. He lidded the canister, ditched the brush, and pushed aside a portrait to check one of the angel sigils, saying, "but seriously, maybe we shouldn't push a good thing."

"I'm fine, Dean. It hasn't been...unbearable today."

"No, you know what? Let's stay in." He switched off half the lights in the place and then ducked behind the counter where Sam was leaning over an accounts notebook which was scribbled over with figures.

"Store's all clear, by the way."

"Looks good here, too." Sam ran a finger down the page and then frowned. "Well, we came out fifteen dollars under, actually."

Dean pointedly took the pencil from Sam's hand and pushed the notebook aside, because the work day was over. Sam didn't complain. He leaned back against the counter and gathered Dean to him by the elbows.

Pressing his mouth to Dean's temple, he murmured, "Someone rip you off, is that it?"

Dean smirked. "I gave the pretentious dude a discount." He pushed a hand up Sam's shirt, bumped his knuckles up to Sam's breastbone. "Worth it for the smug value. I could give you a discount, too, you ask nice enough."

"I'm not paying you a penny," Sam told him, fake shoving him away.

"That so?"

He felt Sam up at the counter for a while like that, Sam warm under his hands, play scuffling and stepping on Dean's foot but breathing soft. The store was still and shadowed around them, vestiges of cobwebs in the corners where they hadn't yet gotten a broom to, bookshelves gathering dust.

Then Sam grabbed him by the ass, wrenching them flush up against one another, so Dean raked both hands back through his hair and licked at his mouth until Sam twisted him around hard so he had him bent back, shoulder blades to the till and smashing the keys, pressing a thumb to Dean's jaw so he could tongue-fuck his mouth slowly.

It was getting all sorts of interesting when there was a jangling of the door.

"What the—"

Door wasn't open was the thing, Dean could see it when he turned his head to the right. Sam took a quick step away and said, "Shit," under his breath, staring over the counter with a growing horror. Dean did an about-face.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he said.

"Is that any way to say hello?" Castiel stood, legs a shoulder's width apart and hands hanging loose by his sides. Dean felt that tangle of ill-will and nostalgia unfold dryly in his chest. He wanted to go over to him and fix his tie, say, You look good, Cas, but of course he couldn't.

"Rhetorical questions now?" he sneered instead. "How'd you even find us? Oh wait, you're God." He was shaking at the knees but running at the mouth.

"I've searched for you." Castiel said, low. "But due to my..." his eyes flickered to Dean's chest. "...past ministrations, I was not able to locate you."

"Ever think there was a reason you did that?" Sam said. "You once thought it was important that we stay out of the way of divinity."

Cas inclined his head, but it was a fluid motion rather than inquisitive, not anything like the Cas Dean had taught to hold a badge or sat with on the curb while the guy had felt his faith break away in chunks.

Cas said, "We've both had enough of...absent fathers."

Dean felt his heart stutter in his chest, closest thing to fear. No, this wasn't Cas. This wasn't the Cas who'd dove into hell for him, who'd fallen for him and—well, suffice to say, things were different, and it was creeping Dean out.

"I seem to remember a conversation a few years back where we said fuck it," he said. "Maybe fathers should just stay gone."

"Dean." Sam stepped forward.

"What?" he snapped.

"Just give him a second," Sam murmured. "If he wanted to kill us, he would have done it in the first place."

"Kill you?" Cas had the gall to look concerned.

"Just cut it out, Cas. Just—just no, you don't get to pull that emotional crap on me."

"Dean."

"Just no, okay? Sammy's had enough on his plate because of you. You want us to suffer? Then fine. Kid's got memories of the worst kind of pain. Now leave."

"Dean."

"And—"

"Dean." The last of the lights flickered, and they all fell silent.

Holy spirit, Dean thought wryly.

"I'm not here to....torture him," Cas said. "I'm here to help."

"Help?" Dean tried to pour all of his disdain into the word but his voice cracked.

"I've come to settle Sam's thoughts," Cas told him, which...yeah, the guy had promised. Promised that, after all that shit went down last month, he'd fix things, return Sam to normal. But then Cas looked past Dean and said, "Sam, tell him."

Dean half-turned so he was no longer stood in front of Sam like a wall but was giving him room instead. "Tell me what?"

Sam looked freaked. "Dean," he pleaded.

"Dean," Cas soothed.

"Both of you just—Sam, what is he talking about?"

"These....memories," Sam hedged. "I sometimes don't know what's real anymore."

Yeah, he'd had said as much to Dean, woken from some crazy-ass dreams that were fevered and wild like you wouldn't believe. Dean had helped him through them, patted his back and said they weren't important.

But here Cas was telling him, "They're all real. When I told you I broke the wall, I meant I broke it. All of it."

Dean had a bad feeling about this. He grabbed for the hem of Sam's shirt, wound his fingers in it.

"I'm here for that reason, and because I am a father," Cas said, face sublime. "You've remembered correctly. You are my son, Sam Winchester."

Cas met Sam's eyes, then, for the first time Dean could remember. "Or should I say...Jesus."


End file.
